A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Three/The Siege Act 5
ACT V.
SCENE I.—A Hall in the Castle: Enter Livia and the Baron, talking as they enter.
Liv. Yes, Baron; you and your friends have, by this plot of yours, taught me a severe lesson; and I thank you for it, though my own understanding ought to have made it unnecessary.
Bar. Dear Livia; why should, a young woman like you be so much affronted at finding her understanding—for you are mighty fond of that word understanding—not quite infallible? At the age of 63, an age I shall henceforth honestly own I have attained, one is not surprised at some small deficiencies even in one's own understanding. One can then, as I shall henceforth do, give up the vanity of being a wise man.
Liv. And a poet, too, Baron? That were too much to give up in one day.
Bar. Posterity will settle that point, Madam, and I shall give myself very little concern about the matter.
Liv. Which one can easily perceive is perfectly indifferent to you. (Noise without.) What encreased noise is that? Since your poor victim is already sacrificed, (for they tell me he is gone, on pretence of violent illness, to the vaults under the castle,) why continue, this mock-war any longer?
Enter Servant.
Bar. By this man's looks one might suppose that our mockery had turned lo earnest..
Liv. (to Serv.) What is the matter?
Serv. A party of the real enemy, Madam, has come to attack the castle, and is now fighting with the Chevalier's men at the gate.
Liv. Why did you not open the gate to receive the Chevalier's men?
Serv. They called to us to get in; but we could not distinguish them from the enemy, who were close on their heels, so we let down the portcullis, an't please you, and they must fight it out under the walls as they can.
Bar. Is the Chevalier in the castle?
Serv. O lud, no, Sir! he sallied out by the postern with Mr. Walter Baurchel and some of the domestics, and is fighting with them like a devil. But his numbers are so small, we fear he must be beaten; and
Liv. And how can we hold out with neither men, ammunition, nor provisions. Merciful Heaven deliver us!
Enter Maid-Servants, wringing their hands.
Maids. O lud, lud! What wall become of us? What will become of us? What shall we do?
Bar. Anything you please but stun us with such frantic clamour. Get off to your laundries and your store-rooms, and your dressing closets, and don't encrease the confusion here.
(Exeunt Maids, clamouring and wringing their hands.)
Liv. You are rough with those poor creatures; they are very much frightened.
Bar. Not half so frightened as those who make less noise. They think it necessary to raise an out-cry, because they are women, and it is expected from them. I have been long enough duped in this way; I have no patience with it now.—But I must go to the walls and try to be of use. (going.)
(Voice without.) Succour! succour!
Liv. Ha! there is a welcome cry.
Enter Jeanetta.
Succour did they say?
Jean. Yes, my lady: a band of men come to relieve us; and their leader is charging the enemy so furiously sword in hand!—the Chevalier, they said, fought like a devil; but he fights like forty devils. We have been looking down upon them by torch-light from the walls; and their swords flash, and their plumes nod, and their eyes glare in the light so gallantly, I could almost sally out myself and take about with them.
Bar. (to Jean.) Aye, Minx; thou'rt forward enough to do any thing.
Liv. Nay, chide her not when she brings us good news.—Heaven be praised for this timely aid! What brave man has brought it to us? Dost thou know him, Jeanetta?
Jean. No, Madam: for, thank God! his back is to us and his face to the foe; but there is a smack in his air of the Baron de Bertrand.
Bar. Ha! my brave Antonio! I'll be sworn it is he. Come; let us to the ramparts, and look down on the combatants.
Liv. Heaven grant there be not much bloodshed! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A dark Vault: Enter Valdemere, followed by Page, carrying a torch in one hand, and his plumed Cap in the other.
Vald. (after hurrying some paces onward, stops short, and looks wildly round him.) Is there no passage this way?
Page. No, my Lord; but you run marvellously fast for one so ill as you are: I could scarcely keep up with you: pray stop here awhile and take breath.
Vald. Stop here, and that sound still behind me!
Page. What sound?
Vald. Did'st thou not hear the tread of heavy steps behind us? The trampling of a whole band?
Page. It was but the sound of my feet following you.
Vald. Only that. The castle is taken thou say'st, and the ruffians are in quest of me.
Page. Aye, marry are they! Their savage leader says, as the old tale book has it, that he'll have the heart's blood of Count Valdemere on his sword before he eat or sleep.
Vald. His sword!
Page. Aye, my Lord, a good heavy rapier, I assure you; and he swears, since you have not fought like a man on the walls, he'll kill you like a rat in your hole.
Vald. I am horribly beset!
Page. Aye, hot work, my Lord; the big drops fall from your forehead, like a thunder shower.
Vald. Thou liest; I am cold as the damp of a sepulchre.
Page. And pale too, as the thing that lies within it.
Vald. (listening.) Hark, hark! they are coming.
Page. I hear nothing.
Vald. Thou dost! thou dost! lying varlet, with that treacherous leer upon thy face: thou hast decoyed me here for destruction. (Catching him by the throat.)
Page. For mercy, my Lord, let go your hold! I hear nothing, as I hope to be saved, but our own voices sounding again from the vaulted roof over our heads.
Vald. Aye, it is vaulted; thou'rt right perhaps—This strange ringing in my ears will not suffer me to know the sounds that really are, from those are not.—Why dost thou grin so? I have a frenzy, I believe; I know I am strangely disordered. It was not so with me yesterday. I could thenDost thou grin still? Stand some paces off: why art thou always so near me?
Page. (retiring to the opposite side of the stage.) I had best, perhaps: his hand has the gripe of a madman.
Vald. (leans his hack against the side-scene, pressing his temples tightly with both hands, and speaking low to himself.) This horrible tumult of nature! it knows within itself the moments that precede its destruction.
Page. I must let him rest for a time. (Pause.)—It is cold here doing nothing. (Puts on his cap.)—He moves not: his eyes have a fixed ghastly stare; truly he is ill. (Going up to him.) You are very ill, my Lord.
Vald. (starting.) Have mercy upon me!
Page. Don't start, my Lord; it was I who spoke to you.
Vald. Who art thou?
Page. Your Page, my Lord.
Vald. Ha! only thou! thy stature seemed gigantic.
Page. This half-yard of plume in my cap, and your good fancy, have made it so.
Vald. Aye; thou, wert unbonnetted before. Keep by me then, but don't speak to me. (Putting his hand again to his temples.)
Page. Nay, I must ask what is the matter. You are very ill: what is the matter with you?
Vald. There is a beating within me like the pendulum of a great clock.
Page. Is it in your heart or your head, my Lord?
Vald. Don't speak to me: it is every where.
Page. Rest here a while; they will not discover you. You are indeed very ill.—Are you worse?
Vald. Speak not; my mouth is parched like a cinder; I can't answer thee.
Page. I'll fetch you some water. (Going.)
Vald. (springing across the stage after him.) Not for the universe.
Page. (aside.) He's strong enough still I see. (Turning his ear to the entry of the vault.)
Vald. Thou'rt listening; thou hear'st something.
Page. By my faith, they are coming now.
Vald. Merciful heaven! where shall I run?
Page. Where you please, my Lord.
Vald. (hurrying two or three steps on, in a kind of groping way.) The light fails me: I don't see where I am going.
Page. Nay, it burns very clearly; I fear it will discover where we are.
Vald. Put it out! put it out, for God's sake!—Where is it? (Seizes on the torch, puts it out, stamping on it with his feet, then laying himself on the floor.) I am gone—I am dead; tell them so, for God's sake!
Page. I shall tell but half a lie when I do.
Enter Baron and Walter Baurchel, with Soldier's Cloaks thrown over them, and Livia in the same Disguise with a military Cap drawn over her Eyes, a Servant preceding them with Torches.
Liv. (shrinking back as she enters.) Is he dead?
(Page nods, and winks to her significantly.)
Bar. (in a rough voice.) Has the caitiff escaped my sword? Have I thirsted for his blood in vain?
Walt. (in a rough voice also.) Is he really dead? I'll lay my hand on his breast, and feel if his heart beats.
Page. O don't do that, gracious, merciful Sir! You'll but defile your worshipful fingers in touching of a dead corse, which brings bad luck with it.
Walt. Well then, Boy, I will not; but there are a couple of brawny knaves without, who are burying the dead for us; they shall come forth with, and cast him into the pit with the rest.
Page. O lud, no. Sir! don't do that, please your worshipful goodness! What if he should come alive again?
Walt. Never fear that: I'll draw this rapier cross his laced cravat, and make it secure.
Vald. (starting up upon his knees.) Mercy, mercy! slay not a dying man; let me breathe my last breath without violence.
Liv. (covering her eyes, and turning away her head.) Torment him no more, I beseech you!
Enter Antonio, and Dartz with his arm bound up.
Ant. Nay, Gentlemen, this is unfeeling, ungenerous, unmanly. Stand upon your feet, Count Valdermere, (raising him up.) there are none but friends near you, if friends they may be called, who have played you such an abominable trick.
Vald. How is this? Art thou Antonio? Where are those who would have butcher'd me?
Omnes, Liv. and Ant. excepted. Ha, ha, ha! (laughing some time.)
Bar. No where, Valdemere, but in your own imagination. We have put this deceit upon you to cure you of arrogance and boasting.
Walt. Running the usual risk, gentle Count, of not having our services very thankfully acknowledged.
Vald. You have laid a diabolical snare for me, and I have fallen into it most wretchedly—I have been strangely overcome. I have been moved as with magic.—I have beenI—I know not—What shall I call it?
Walt. Give yourself no trouble about that, Count; we can find a name for it.
Ant. Nay, good Sir; you shall not call it by any name a man would be asham( correcting himself.) unwilling to hear. The Count, as Dartz has informed me, while I bound up his wound above stairs, has been tampered with, by dreams and fortune-telling and other devices, in a way that might have overcome many a man, who, differently circumstanced, would not have shrunk from his duty in the field. And shall we sport wantonly with a weakness of our nature in some degree common to all? We admire a brave man for overcoming it, and should pity the less brave when it overcomes him.
Liv. (catching his hand eagerly.) Noble Antonio!
Ant. Young man, I thank you: this squeeze of the hand tells me I have you upon my side.
Vald. And let me also say, "Noble Antonio!"—And what more can I say! I have not deserved this generous treatment from you.
Ant. Say nothing more: the transactions of this night shall be as if they had never been: they will never be mentioned by any of us.
Walt. Speak for yourself, Antonio de Bertrand; my tongue is a free agent, and will not be bridled by another person's feelings. But there is one condition on which I consent to be silent as the grave; and the Baron and Chevalier concur with me.
Bar. and Dartz. We do so.
[Exit Bar.
Dart. We but require of Valdemere to do what, as a man of honour he is bound to do; and satisfied on this point, our silence is secured for ever.
Re-enter Baron leading in Nina.
Bar. (to Vald.) Look on this fair gentlewoman: her father was a respectable officer, though misfortunes prevented his promotion. You have taken advantage of her situation, being under the protection of the Countess your mother, as a god-daughter and distant relation, to use her most unworthily. Make her your wife, and receive, as her dowry, your reputation in the world untarnished.
Walt. Now, good, heroic, sentimental Antonio; is this too much to require of the noble personage you plead for?
Ant. On this I am compelled to be silent.
Bar. Will Count Valdemere vouchsafe us an answer? Will you marry her or not, Count?
Vald. I have indeed—I ought in strict justiceShe will not accept of one who has used her so unworthily.
Page. (eagerly.) I hope not: I would rather than a thousand crowns she would refuse him.
Dart. Will you have him or not, pretty Nina? Don't be afraid to refuse him: we shan't think the worse of you if you do. (Nina stands silent and weeping.)
Page. (aside to Nina.) Don't have him, woman; he's a coward and a coxcomb, and adon't have him.
Nina. (aside.) Ah, you have never loved him as I have done, Brother.
Page. (aloud.) Murrain take thee and thy love too! thou hast no more spirit in thee than a worm.
Bar. Bravo, Boy! thou hast enough of it, I see; and I'll put a stand of colours into thy hand as soon as thou art strong enough to carry them. Thou art my boy now; I will protect thee.
Page. I thank you, Baron.—And my sister; will you protect her too?
Bar. Yes, Child; both of you.
Page. Refuse him then, Nina: hast thou no more pride about thee?
Nina. Alas! I should, have more pride: I know l should; but I have been sadly humbled.
Page. Thou'lt be still more so if thou art his wife, trust me! for he'll despise thee, and cow thee, and make thee a poor slave to his will. Thou'lt tremble at every glance of his eye, and every turn of his humoursome fancy.—He'll treat thee like a very
Vald. Stop, spiteful wretch! I'll cherish and protect her, and turn every word thou hast uttered to a manifest and abominable falsehood.—Give me thy hand, Nina; thou really lovest me; no one will do it but thee; and I shall have need of somebody to love me.
Omnes. Well said, Count! this is done like a man!
Ant. (to Page.) Faith, Boy! those sharp words of thine were worth a store of gentle persuasion. Thou hast woo'd for thy sister in a spell-like fashion as witches say their prayers backwards. I wish somebody would court my mistress for me in the same manner: 'tis the only chance I have of winning her.
Liv. (in a feigned voice.) I'll do that for thee, gallant De Bertand; for I know faults enough of yours to acquaint her with, besides the greatest of all faults, concealing good talents under a bushel; every tittle of which I will tell her forthwith, and she'll marry you, no doubt, out of spite.
Ant. Thanks, pleasant stripling! May thy success be equal to thy zeal! (taking her hand.) Thy name, youth? thou hast a pretty gait in that warlike cloak of thine, but thy cap overshadows thee perversely.—Ha! this is not a
boy's hand!—That ring—O Heavens!
(Retires some faces back in confusion, while Livia, taking off her cap and cloak, makes him a profound curtesy; and pauses, expecting him to speak. Finding him silent, she begins to rub her hand, and look at it affectedly.)
Liv. It is not a boy's hand, Baron de Bertrand: 'tis the hand of a weak foolish woman, which shall be given to a lover of hers who is not much wiser than herself, whenever he has courage to ask it.
Walt. (aside, jogging Ant.) That is thyself: dost thou not apprehend her, man?
Liv. (still looking at her hand.) Even so; whenever he has courage to ask it. That, I suppose, may happen in about five or six years from this present time.
Ant. (running up to her, catching her hand, and putting his knee to the ground.) Now, now, dear Livia! O that I could utter what I feel!—I am a fool still;—I cannot.
Liv. Nothing you can possibly say will make me more sensible of your generous worth, or more ashamed of my former injustice to it.
(All crowd round Ant. and Liv. to congratulate them, when the Countess is heard speaking angrily without.)
Dart. We must pay our compliments another time; I fear there is a storm ready to burst upon us.
Enter Countess.
Countess. Yes, Gentlemen; I have heard of your plot, as you call it; a diabolical conspiracy for debasing the merit you envy. I despise you all: you are beneath my anger.
Walt. Let us escape it then.
Countess. (to Walt.) Aye, snarling Cynic! who hast always a prick of thy adder's tongue to bestow upon every one whom the world admires or caresses; thou are the wicked mover of all these contrivances. (To the Bar.) As for you, poor antiquated rhime-maker! had I but continued to praise your verses, you would have suffered me to ruin your whole kindred very quietly; nor had one single grain of compunction disturbed the sweet calm of your gratified vanity.
Bar. Nay, Madam; I cannot charge my memory with any interruption of your goodness, in this respect, to my face: had you been as perseveringly obliging behind my back, we might indeed have remained longer friends than would have been entirely for the interest of my heir.
Countess. Well, well; may every urchin of the principality learn by rote some scrap of your poetry, and mouth it at you as often as you stir abroad! (To Liv.) And you, Madam; you are here, too, amongst this worshipful divan! This is your hospitality—your delicacy—yourO! may you wed a tyrant for your pains, and these walls prove your odious prison!—But I spend my words vainly: where is the unhappy victim of your envious malevolence? They told me he was here. (Discovering Vald. and Nina retired to the bottom of the stage.) Ha! you are here, patiently enduring their triumph, degenerate boy! Is this the fruit of all my cares? Did I procure for you a military appointment, did I tease every creature connected with me for your promotion, did I ruin myself for your extravagant martial equipments—and has it all come to this?
Vald. You put me into the army, Madam, to please your own vanity; and they who thrust their sons into it for that purpose, are not always gratified.
Countess. And you answer me thus! I have spoilt you, indeed; and an indulged child, I find, does not always prove a dutiful one. Who is that you hold by the hand?
Vald. My wife, Madam.
Countess. Your wife! You do not say so: you dare not say so. Have they imposed a wife upon you also? Let go her unworthy hand.
Vald. No, Madam; never. It is my hand that is unworthy to hold so much innocent affection.
Countess. You are distracted: let go her hand, or I renounce you for ever.—What, will you not?
Vald. I will not.
Countess. Thou can'st be sturdy, I find, only for thine own ruin. They have confounded and bewildered thee: thou hast joined the conspiracy against thyself, and thy poor mother.—O, I could hate thee more than them all!— Heaven grant me patience!
Walt. I like to hear people pray for what they really want.
Countess. Insolent! Heaven grant you what you need not pray for, the detestation of every one annoyed with your pestiferous society.
[Exit in rage.
Dart. Let us be thankful this tornado is over, and the hurry of an eventful day and night so happily concluded.—I hope, charming Livia, you forgive our deceit, and regret not its consequences.
Liv. The only thing to be regretted, Chevalier, is the wound you have received.
Dart. Thank God! this, though but slight, is the only harm that has been done to-night, a broken pate or two excepted; and our feigned attack upon the castle has been providentially the means of defending it from a real one. Had not Antonio, however, who was not in our plot, come so opportunely to our aid, we had been beaten.—But now that I have time to enquire, how did'st thou come so opportunely?
Ant. I have been in the habit, of wandering after dark round the walls. Livia knows not how many nights I have watched the light gleaming from the window of her chamber. Wandering then, as usual, I discovered a corps of the enemy on their march to the castle, and went immediately for succour, which I fortunately found. We have both fought stoutly, my friend, with our little force; but the blows have fallen to your share, and the blessing to mine.
Dart. Not so; friends keep not their shades so distinctly.
Liv. True, Chevalier; and you claim, besides; whatever satisfaction you may have from the gratitude of this good company, for contriving a plot that has ended so fortunately.
Dart. Nay, there is, I fear, one person in this good company, from whom my claims, of this kind, are but small.—Count Valdemere, can you forgive me?
Vald. Ask me not at present, Dartz. I know that my conduct to Antonio did deserve correction; but you have taken a revenge for him with merciless severity, which he would himself have been too generous, too noble, to have taken.
Dart. Well, Count, I confess I stand somewhat reproved and conscience-stricken before you.
Walt. (to Dart.) Why, truly, if he forgive thee, or any of us, by this day twelve-month, it will be as much as we can reasonably expect.
Dart. Be it so! And now we have all pardon to ask, where, I hope, it will be granted immediately. (Bowing to the audience.)
THE END OF THE SIEGE.